In the new world, we stood across each other
and radiated the same curvature and vergence.
We kissed and it tasted wrong, like lime-soda
glass and silver; our tongues
were cold and limp like dead fish floating
half-eaten, swirling out to sea.
So we took out our instruments and began again:
my blade, your cup,
my cup, your blade,
refrain and refrain.
Look, but never touch; see, but never understand—
God spares the insensate this particular madness.
The scent of fishermen swims up city drafts
and a hungry dog whimpers.